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  This simple gesture of decency, signifying more to Polly than the act itself warranted, turned out to be Basil’s best deal ever. In fact, those few extra pounds were to prove an astonishingly cheap, automatically renewed full-coverage life insurance policy. It was a life-saver, his buffer against the apparently random hostilities emanating from people and things in his surroundings. Simply by for once keeping his word, Basil was blessed with the presence of a fairy; from then on, and for ever after, Basil could always, or almost always, count on Polly’s loyalty whenever he got himself into serious trouble.

  This was the way things stood when Polly set foot in Fawlty Powers’ reception that summer. It didn’t take long for her to realise that whatever her hopes or fears had been, she could say goodbye to them now, since the world she had entered was situated in the twilight zone. She was never able to explain the powerful attraction it exerted on her, but she really was an artist insofar as the imaginary and the real, for her as well, tended to blend in one single vision.

  Did she feel sorry for Basil? Perhaps. Did she want to get out of it all? Certainly. But the force that kept her posted was stronger than her own will. After all, the delusive prospect of a career as an actress had driven her all the way to England. Capable of submitting herself to a grandiose illusion, Fawlty Towers, contrary to what one might naturally expect, did not represent a madhouse pure and simple to her. Yet, she had only come to stay and to help out during the summer. All of a sudden she realised she had been there for five years ...

  MANUEL GOMEZ — THE SPANISH WAITER

  Manuel was born in Barcelona in May 1947, or was it October 1948? Mother was never quite sure. Incontrovertible, however, is that Manuel was one of a family of eleven siblings — or perhaps only ten. In May 1947 his mother and the rest of the family had been so preoccupied with mourning the deceased father — said to have passed away with an expression of profound relief on his face — that she hardly had time to register another childbirth. Rumour has it that one of the siblings actually snapped the child from the cradle and sold him for folding money in the street. The baby boy disappeared for many months, but was rediscovered in a nearby hospital where he was used in demonstrations to young bourgeois mothers of how to change nappies and take temperatures.

  In October 1948 another family crisis reared its head. Although Father had been dead for over a year and Mother had never remarried, she nevertheless found herself about to give birth for the eleventh time — or perhaps only tenth — a fact which she had tried to hide for as long as possible, suspecting one of her sons of having taken advantage of her during the siesta. Mother consequently found it hard to look this latest addition to the family in the face. In addition, Manuel and his brother Pepe did look surprisingly identical, just like twins. A famous Spanish doctor, who once observed them, became interested in the anomaly and wanted to make a case out of an exceptional twin birth where one foetus had been arrested in its development and waited for his brother to get ready and out of the womb, before he himself started to grow. But it had all been speculation. In reality, Manuel never knew whether his father was a man he had never seen, buried in the very same month as he was born, or one of his brothers. And since Manuel never really knew who his father was, he could never be quite sure who he was himself.

  Over time a Dickensian aura of faithful love not reciprocated would spread around Manuel. He continued to revere his mother although she hardly took any notice of him. He was in fact a notably good-natured boy; the problem was that he was also, to say the least, very clumsy. In due course he learned both to read and write, but didn’t care overmuch for either activity, as, in his hands, objects like books and pens assumed characteristics not normally associated with such peaceful artefacts, and tended to wound him and anyone else who happened to be in their vicinity.

  However, an obliging nature can compensate for many other shortcomings in this world, and at the age of nine Manuel found a job with a bakery. Somehow the building caught fire during the course of his first morning on the job, and Manuel was blamed for the conflagration.

  From this point onwards, Manuel’s career took a turn for the even worse. Although he was always eager to learn, he was nonetheless considered impossible to educate, and he soon acquired hierostratic fame in all of Barcelona for his remarkable capacity of turning a flourishing local business enterprise into a disaster within a week. In order to get this human earthquake out of town for good, a group of concerned citizens put together a dazzling recommendation to the Foreign Office, the principal agency governing temporary employment outside Spain but within the European Economic Community. The authorities looked through their files of vacancies and found an obscure hotel on the south-west coast of England. In Devon, of all places. Wasn’t that where Sir Francis Drake came from, the bandido? “Help needed?” Hola Ingles: “We’ll send you help all right!” The only condition is that you pay for the transportation of the subject; otherwise you can have him for as long as you like ...

  Talk about killing two birds with one stone. By this seemingly innocuous act Barcelona was not only to rid herself of her most prodigiously dangerous son, but also, on behalf of all of Spain, to avenge the debacle of the Armada outside Cadiz once and for all.

  Time for the estocado. Ole!

  MISS TIBBS AND MISS GATSBY — THE LADIES

  The origins of the Ladies go back to times so shrouded in legend that they themselves have difficulty in recalling the name of the king that was on the throne at the time of their angelic church-bell-accompanied descent from the blessed meadows of female compassion. Although to an uninitiated eye it must seem as if the Ladies have never once been apart, a quick glance in their old diaries and withered letters would confirm that they did meet for the first time in London sometimes in the early 1930s, and that over the years they became quite inseparable in working for the cause dearest to their hearts: the welfare of the poor. Like the Major they remained in the line of duty until they became eligible for state pension, and neither ever married.

  Violet Tibbs spent her early years and youth in Rhodesia — as the area now encompassing the countries of Zimbabwe and Zambia was then called. One calamitous day a dashing young man from Cape Province was introduced to her. She immediately fell passionately in love with him, but her family, over which a stout British patriarch held sway, did not approve of the fellow, reputed to be nothing more than a gambler, womaniser and all-round bounder.

  Violet’s elopement with the rapscallion led, after some exciting travel adventures, to bitterness and sorrow, for quite apart from being disinherited and shunned by her family, she lost her lover too. Calculating that no more money was to be wrung from his fiancée, the confidence trickster turned his attentions to other, more profitable sources of income — wealthier women, in fact.

  Violet was left behind in London in disgraceful circumstances — she was poor as a church mouse and pregnant. But she was too afraid to attempt a termination (a risky undertaking in those days), so the child was actually brought into this world. Some English relatives eventually gave her food and shelter, but forced her to give the child up for adoption. She was never to see her son again. Soon after his birth she tried to commit suicide, thinking that a bottle of gin spiced up with sufficient quantities of bromide would be enough to send her back to her maker. It wasn’t. It just sent the bromural and the alcohol back onto the bedspread, and she herself into a tremendous hangover.

  Violet found it hard to ever get over her first and unhappy love, which had been sincere on her side. However, she had by now accepted her fate. Although other men would court and even propose to her (she was a beautiful woman in her youth and remained striking well into the autumn of her life), she never accepted any hand in marriage and sublimated herself in philanthropy.

  On the anniversary of her forty years as a dedicated social worker, a merry farewell party was organised in her honour at the Social Service headquarters (the so-called SS) and a week later she was to receive from the chairman’
s hand the charity medal for merit of the first order. That day was a happy one for Miss Tibbs. She sat at the chairman’s table for high tea, she was surrounded by colleagues and officials who all wanted to shake hands, or even embrace her. But best of all was that from now one she would enjoy a much deserved retirement.

  Together with Miss Gatsby, with whom she had been sharing a flat in Earls Court, she decided to retire to the countryside, preferably somewhere close to the sea. They spent a week at Fawlty Towers in Torquay one summer and found themselves well taken care of by the staff, which at that time included the faithful old, and in a Swedenborgian sense, clairvoyant servant Elsie, who later used to conduct spiritual seances in their rooms, read tarot cards and join the Ladies for bingo after church on Sundays.

  When the Ladies found out that the pension also offered rooms lor standing residents, they simply decided to move their whereabouts. When we meet them, they have been there for the last nine years, almost as long as the Major himself, and with whom verbal exchange has advanced to conversational subtleties such as: “Good morning Major.” “Good morning Ladies, nice day, isn’t it?”1

  Miss Rose Gatsby’s story is more commonplace but perhaps also a bit sadder than that of her dear friend, for where Violet had deliberately chosen, after her one disastrous relationship, to become a spinster, there had in Rose’s case really not been much of a choice. Born into a middle-class Lancashire family as the youngest of three daughters, she seemed destined to remain the white spot on the map. Although the father was solicitous for all his daughters, he only managed to successfully marry off the two oldest. When Rose turned thirty-five years of age, she herself lost heart. At the same time her father fell seriously ill. Rose, still living with her parents, felt that it was her duty to help her old mother to nurse him. He died the same year and Rose mourned him piously.

  It is possible that she also loved other men, but they were never to know. Over the years Rose, contrary to her real nature, had grown shy and taciturn. It was only when she finally met Violet that she dared to speak of her fears and insecurities. However, by that time it was too late to get married. When her mother died as well, Rose finally decided to make an attempt to lead a life of her own. She used the money bequeathed by her father to come to London and open a small hatshop in Earls Court. Having little flair for fashion she failed to make a profit. Violet, living nearby, had walked past the shop many times. Early one evening the sign announcing its liquidation caught her eye and prompted her to take a peep inside. She walked in and found Rose alone in the empty room, weeping. Violet took her home to tea and Chelsea buns, and told her about the peace of mind that charity work had brought her. Little by little Rose cheered up, and when Violet firmly concluded that there is always someone worse off than oneself, Rose had already been on the track on which she was to remain for a good thirty years. In other words, Violet talked her into becoming a charity woman, just like herself. From this point onwards, Rose slowly and steadily regained confidence in herself, and it was often noticed how well they complemented each other in diverse situations, the persistence and benign patience of Rose forming a natural counterpart to the sanguine humour and vivacity of Violet.

  And it wasn’t Miss Tibbs who founded their common treasury. Starting with the little money left from her own inheritance, Miss Gatsby, practical and with foresight as always, began to save small amounts from their monthly salaries and place them in government bonds. A mere five weeks after Violet received her gold medal, and her pension, Rose decided that she was not going to wait for her own medal, since the national lottery, in which the Ladies participated once a year through their possession of bonds, had meanwhile opened its gates to them and rewarded their unselfish zeal in service of the under-privileged with the handsome sum of £50.000.

  Violet, ever fearful of the vengeance of her long-dead father, urged Rose to give the better part of it away to charity, to set up a foundation in their name or something. Rose not only contradicted her friend, but decided that enough was enough. They had given most of their lives to further the welfare of the riff-raff, now it was time for them to live for themselves, and to enjoy it.

  Rose argued that there was absolutely nothing wrong in keeping the money as long as they did not flaunt it. They would remain true to their modest ways, all the same knowing that they could always allow themselves a little luxury every now and then ... Over time, this added luxury tended to manifest itself in two rather voluminous wardrobes, and a rich collection of pearls, necklaces and bracelets. But these items were slowly amassed and did not even arouse the suspicion of Sybil, who must have concluded that the Ladies had been given these jewels at various stages of their lives, perhaps even by various admirers, now passed away.

  Nobody knew that they were keeping a fortune inside their own mattresses, and it would probably never have become known if it weren’t for the fact that the charitable disposition of the Ladies was to be called upon one last time — in a real life-and-death situation. Needless to add, the Ladies responded to the challenge by once again rising to the heroic heights of true Englishness, where material things, such as money, and again money, are invariably sacrificed for a higher cause ...

  TERRY — THE ALLEGED KITCHEN CHEF

  Terry seemed destined to become a criminal of one sort or another. Born to neglectful parents in a desolate South London housing estate, he was obliged at an early age to join his local street gang, the Friends of Chaos. These young men spent most of their time defending their turf from incursions by rival gangs such as the Borough Street Boys, the Fierce Meerkats and the Siberian Hamsters.

  Terry grew up to be neither particularly strong nor tall, but he was agile, and competent in his use of knife and boot. He rose quickly through the ranks of the Friends, partly because of his skills, partly on account of his charm and sociopathic tendencies, so indispensable in making one’s way in the hierarchy of gang life. In fact, his popularity was such that he became a prized target of neighbouring gangs, much as a famed Aztec warrior was sought out in battle for capture and sacrifice.

  One evening he was attacked and severely beaten, regaining consciousness some time later to find a visiting-card neatly pinned to the lapel of his fancy stolen leather jacket. “Congratulations,” it read, “You have just had a full and frank exchange of views with the Siberian Hamsters.” His watch was on his wrist, his wallet and stash of drug-samples untouched. After a couple of weeks of fairly careful nursing, Terry was taken to court, convicted of possessing drugs with intent to supply, and sent to prison, where his life was to undergo a dramatic change.

  His cell-mate turned out to be the enormously erudite art historian and former Cistercian brother Mark Whistlebourne, who had ended up behind bars because he had been unable to keep his expertise in forging master works by Rembrandt, Turner and Cezanne to himself. On the contrary, he had made himself a handsome fortune by providing insatiable art collectors and museums all over the world with a number of strikingly inauthentic masterpieces. When Terry got to know about his astonishing career he began striking up conversations, for instance by asking if it was diffcult to learn the trade of art forgery. “Well, if you want quick results, go for Fauviste works; they are all fake anyway.”

  However, during pottery class one afternoon the master-forger confided to Terry that he was seriously considering a change of career, and going straight. He had amassed enough money to buy a flat in Brighton, where he would be among friends, and besides, a spot of honesty would make a nice change — at least for a while. “I’ve never wallowed in the luxury of a perfectly blameless bourgeois existence,” he told Terry. “It’s time to give it a bash.”2 In expansive mood still, he advised Terry to think about doing the same.

  Mr. Whistlebourne s advice stayed in Terry’s memory. On his release from prison, and with the help of the Prisoners’ Aid Society, Terry obtained a place at a catering school. He found that he had something of an affinity for the work, left the school with creditable marks, and took the first
of a series of short-order jobs (fish and chips mainly). It was a major promotion for him when he was chosen from a shortlist of three to be second chef at a small hotel in Dorchester. Here he stayed for five years or so, gainfully and on the whole happily employed, till the hotelier retired, and the new regime proved not to his taste.

  Terry’s attention was drawn to an advertisement placed in the tourist pamphlet What's on in Torquay? by the Fawltys, whose previous chef had been asked to leave after unaccountably trying to strangle Manuel in the kitchen. Basil had been very understanding, not to say happy, about the chef’s reaction and intent, but one of the guests during that lunch hour had happened to be a high-ranking police officer off duty, and this gentleman suddenly felt that it was his duty to return to duty and to file a report.

  Terry was given the job on three months’ approval. “We have to make sure that you don’t kill the guests before we can give you the job more permanently,” Basil succinctly outlined the situation. Terry felt insulted, of course, but then he too had seen some ruffians in his day. Born and bred cockney, he would never convince Mr. Fawlty about his own discerning taste. But it didn’t matter so much, since the assumption of social superiority in Basil himself was, after all, more often than not, affected.

  BASIL FAWLTY — OWNER AND MANAGER AS WELL

  It would be natural to assume that a person as singular as Basil Fawlty must come from a family of extraordinary eccentrics. Truth to tell, this is not the case. His father, a kindly and somewhat taciturn figure, used to work as Ombudsman (although the title was conferred upon him retroactively, since not even the Swedes had come up with it at that early date) for the Transport and General Workers’ Union in Swanage. In other words, his father was a union representative, and we may get a first-hand impression of Basil’s contempt for his own old man by noting the strange mixture of frustration and fury he displays when later in life the name of Harold Wilson, the late Labour Party leader, is mentioned in his presence.